


with the blink of an eye you finally see the light

by shesmiledlikeaknife



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, One-Sided Attraction, angst first then it gets better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-31 19:09:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shesmiledlikeaknife/pseuds/shesmiledlikeaknife
Summary: She’s on the road to self-destruction, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> shamelessly got the title from an Aerosmith song lyric.

She’s on the road to self-destruction, and he doesn’t know what to do about it.

 

She was one of his best friends, strange though it might seem, given that he’s four years older. His friends never understood why he put up the little red-haired girl, but the truth is that at the age of eight, Sansa Stark could make him laugh like nobody else could. It was a side she didn’t show to others, but she would sometimes say something insightful, or witty, and he would always pause and forget she was the younger one out of the two of them. Sansa is his cousin, but oftentimes he forgets that given she’s the only one who seems to understand him.

 

He was twelve when his parents were killed in a car accident and per mother's last will and testament, guardianship of him went to his mother’s brother. Besides his Uncle Ned, Sansa was the only Stark who never hesitated to talk to him when everyone else treated him like a pariah. He knows it’s not their fault; his mother hadn’t left Winterfell on good terms and some still saw him more of a Targaryen than a Stark. Of course, eight-year-old Sansa Stark was too young to understand her grandparents and the rest of society’s closed-minded views and simply just saw him as Jon Targaryen, her cousin.

 

Her smile was bright; bright as her hair; bright as the make-up she now wore; bright like a thousand city lights on a winter evening.

 

It’s still bright, but now it’s brittle-bright. Dazzling and hard-edged and white hot, and she’s burning so hard she’s going to burn her out, and that breaks his heart.

 

_He remembers the day clearly. She’s seventeen, a senior in high school. He’s nearly twenty-one, still pushing his way through community college and working full-time. He comes to visit for the Christmas holidays, like he always does. He could visit his father's side of the family since they're closer to where he attends school, but he knows he prefers his mom’s side mainly because of one particular Stark._

_She came downstairs in scarlet high-top trainers, paired with bright blue leggings and skimpy denim shorts and a black leather jacket; a nice contract to her long red hair that falls past her back. Sansa was the sort of girl who could wear anything and make it look good. He’s seen her in formal dresses (prom), he’s seen her in pajamas on Christmas mornings. Hell, he’s seen her in a pair of overalls and always been impressed how easily the style suits her. The sunlight from outside was shining through the window on her, and there was a smile on her face, and Jon had always liked to look at her like that, because she was so happy and confident and unbreakable. Then he realized with a shock that was almost a punch in the stomach that he really should not be looking at her legs for that long, or enjoying the view that much._

_She didn’t notice. She gave him a big grin as he lay on their sofa – he spent half his life at the Stark house – and ruffled his hair as she passed, with her painted pink fingernails. Then she left the house, off to meet some friend or other, and never realized that Jon had been struck dumb by the thunderbolt realization that he felt something more for her than he should._

 

* * *

 

She is lost, but she is pretending not to be. If she pretends for long enough, it will be true.

 

She knows he isn't good for her, but oh god, it feels so good, and so right, when she's with him. It all just slips into place, and she's burning for him, and the lights seem brighter, and in the middle of it all, he's there. His handsome face is laughing at her, eyes blazing, charmed tongue doing its work, fingers dancing over her skin. They've all told her he's no good, but she is Sansa Stark, and she's done caring about what others think. And when he's not with her, all that's left is a hollow emptiness and an echoing silence. Like now.

  
She's stumbled out of the party, and the night-lit city is shimmering in a frightening way. The lights are too bright and the buildings loom out of nowhere and every shadow seems to hold a large-eyed grotesque with a knife, until she turns to face the shadow and the figures fade into the night, leaving her shaking and her head spinning. It is cold and drizzling, but she hardly notices.

  
She told him she wanted to leave, but he was having fun. They'd reached the stage of the evening when figures were draped over chairs and the floor, amid the debris the party had left, but he was still going strong. Because he never had as much as anyone else – never had as much as her. He said it was so that he could look after her. But he didn't look after her. He didn't listen when she asked to leave. "Not yet," was all he said, and then his attention was lost, and it is always like that. When they are alone, it is perfect, but when he is among his friends, it's as if she's almost invisible, and he just expects her to wait for him.

 

And the terrifying part is how little she minds this. The old Sansa would have been furious at being treated like that, but the old Sansa has been numbed and frozen. This is normal. This is right. And if this is the only way she can keep him, this is how it has to be.

  
_She remembers the day clearly. It was New Year, the winter after she finished her first semester at college, and she was at a party. It was a big party, with lots of people there she didn't know very well, some of them quite a lot older than her._

_He came and introduced himself and bought her a drink, and she was instantly mesmerised. He was different from the boys she usually hung around with. He was older; more sophisticated on the outside, but with a wild look in his eyes, and a reckless way of smiling that said that here was a rebel. And Sansa had always been drawn like a magnet to rebels._

  
_He smiled at her, and she was hooked. He introduced her to all kinds of things later, but the strongest drug of all was just him. Exhilarating, intoxicating, dizzying and oh, so dangerous._

  
_He knew how to play her. He bought her things – because he always had plenty of money – and he took her out to places she'd never been before. She was just a teenager, who hung around with other teenagers; they never haunted the more upmarket, expensive places. And it was the novelty of the thing that she enjoyed; the excitement of being shown a new and glittering world. His friends were fun and fast-paced and wild, and she enjoyed being with them. It was 'just this once' when he handed her the cigarette that she knew didn't only contain tobacco, and 'just this once' again when he offered her the little white pill... and they were all doing it, so how could she say no? She didn't want to say no, not at first, because 'yes' was more fun. Later, when she tried to refuse, he laughed at her, and dropped it in her drink instead. And she watched him do it, so she knew it was there, but it would just have been petty to refuse to drink it, especially since he'd bought it for her._

 

_Sansa knew her family hoped that he was nothing but a phase; that she would tire of him as quickly as she tired of the others. But she also knew – just as she knows now – that he was far too addictive for her to 'tire' of, and that whatever this was, it wasn't just a 'phase.'_

  
_It was Arya who saw what was happening first and tried to talk to her about it. But Arya could only say bad things about him – she couldn't see the man behind the monster, or any reason why Sansa might love him. She thought it was an infatuation – that was the word she used, among others. Harsh, ugly words that made Sansa angry._

  
_"He's just a rich-pompous asshole, Sans. He doesn't give a shit about you; he just keeps you around to be a pretty little accessory. Is that really all you want to be? Are you really happy like this? What does he give you, Sans? What are you taking? Because whatever it is, you need to wake up and stop."_

  
_"Piss off, Arya! Just fuck off out of my life, if that's all you've got to say! You don't know anything about us! Is it so hard to believe that we're actually in love with each other? What you see is nothing, because the bits that matter are the bits nobody sees."_

  
_"That's what I'm worried about. The bits nobody sees. What's he done to you? I can't even see the sister I knew any more. She's gone. You were so much more than this. I don't even recognize you anymore. Please get out of it. I don't want to have to talk to Mom and Dad-"_

  
_"Fine! Go to them. There's nothing they can do either. I'm an adult. I can run my own life. I don't need you or anyone else to dictate how I should live my life. I don't need anyone. Why can’t you ever be happy for me?”_

 

* * *

 

He finds her that night, crumpled on the doorstep, and it’s all his nightmares come true. She has fallen, and she lies in a sodden, lifeless heap at his feet, and for a moment, he thinks she is dead. Her skin is so white it's almost blue, and she is wearing a black dress, and he remembers, although it's hardly relevant, the vivid colors she always used to wear. Now the only color about her is her flame-red hair, although even that is darkened by the drenching rain.

  
He drops down beside her, heedless of his clean pants and the wet, muddy step. Her skin is cold and wet against his touch, but her chest is rising rapidly up and down, and the ice around his heart, which formed at the thought of her dead, melts, flooding him with love and fear and desperation and anger – anger with the people who have done this to her.

She won't wake up and he drives her to the nearest hospital, appearing in the entrance hall in rain-dampened clothes and carrying her unconscious form in his arms, drawing horrified stares from all the neatly-dressed people come to visit friends and relatives.

  
There is a flurry of activity round them, but Jon feels as though it is happening far away. The only thing that is real is the white-faced girl with the slowly drying red hair plastered to her head. He stays with her, against their wishes, until she wakes up, and he stops them from contacting her parents, although he feels guilty for this, as though he is betraying an unspoken trust.

  
But he has surely already betrayed that trust by falling in love with her. And anyway, she came to him.

  
Once her eyes are open, although she does not speak, and he is convinced that she is not really going to die immediately, they chase him away, telling him that she needs to rest. A doctor speaks seriously to him outside, but he only hears half the words. She needs help. He knows that, but he doesn't know how to give her it.

  
He drinks a foul-tasting coffee in the hospital café and sits at a small table, staring at nothing as the time passes, his mind a blank. All he can think of is Sansa, so it is better not to think.

  
When he returns to her, she is sitting up, shadows like bruises under her eyes, dull blue eyes dark in her pale face, and he thinks that he has never seen anything more heartbreaking than the emptiness in those once-sparkling eyes.

  
"Why?" he asks, just once, and she turns away.

 

"Don't, Jon."

  
He tries; he tries to bring her back. She can get out of it, he tells her. He can help her. Her parents can help her. She doesn't have to do it anymore. She needs to get away from him, from the bastard who made her into this. She can do it; she can walk away. She  _must_  walk away, before it's too late.

  
But she looks at him, hollow eyes shimmering with tears, and she shakes her head.

  
"It's already too late," she whispers. "I can't. I can't because I don't want to. I'm sorry, Jon."

  
And she pulls away from him, and he knows that he has lost her.

  
But even now, Jon cannot give up hope. Because he still has the knowledge that, for whatever reason – and she probably doesn't even know it herself – when she was lost that night, she came to him.


	2. Chapter 2

She knows what she has done. She knows that she has hurt Jon, although perhaps she doesn't know how much. She knows that her family are desperately worried, even though they don't know the worst of it. But she is drawn back to him, like a moth to a flame. Back to the white-hot fire of him, with a sick feeling in her stomach because she knows, which a moth cannot, that she is going to be burned. She clings, with increasing desperation, to the idea that they are in love. That love, as her parents taught her, is stronger than any dark forces. Their love makes it all worthwhile.

  
Then she discovers that strong forces are not infallible and that love can be false, and she realises that her ability to feel pain has not been as numbed as she thought it had, which would be a relief if it didn't hurt so much.

  
He has hit her before - exasperated slaps in the heat of anger, which he smooths away with kisses afterwards. And again, part of her knows that there was a time when she would not have taken this. When she would have turned and left the moment he raised a hand, never to return. But now she convinces herself that it is all right, that he does not mean it, that it doesn't matter very much. He has never hit her hard enough to bruise her.

Until he does.

But not even that does not stop her for coming back for more. He knows it too and dangles it in front of her like it is a game now. She has to be good, she has to “earn” it. She knows, in some detached part of her brain, that this is not going to end well. If there was anything left of the girl she once was, the girl who believed in herself and in life, then now is the moment that that girl must fight.

It is only her belief that they are in love that prevents her. That is until she comes in the apartment they share to find him entwined with a dark-haired beauty dressed in a pair of scarlet heels and nothing else. The room burns with their passion; the girl’s cries of pleasure ring loud in her ears, drowning out the sound that is Sansa’s heart shattering.

She stands there for what seems like years, poised on the edge of a nightmarish drop.

 

* * *

 

She is at his doorstep again, but this time she is standing upright, although she looks like she’s been up all night. He opens the door and notes her eyes are ablaze with a cold light that he has never seen before. It is better than the mute, dead look that she has worn for so long, and his heart leaps to see it, but then twists anew for her, because that new icy fire is terrifying.

“Can I stay with you for a few days?” she asks without preamble, and when she walks up closer towards him, he sees the faint blue and purple mark just over her left eye, and her poor attempt to hide it with make-up. He swears.

He lets her in without a word, only speaking her name as she silently crosses the threshold of the front door.

“Sansa.”

She doesn’t reply, she just steps further in his apartment, towards the kitchen. She stops and turns around, and without another word, she is sobbing in his arms, babbling that she had been so stupid, and her hands clench at the front of his shirt as she wets it with her tears.

“I numbed myself for so long, so much, I couldn’t _feel_ it,” she’s saying, tears sliding down her face. “I can feel everything now. It _hurts_ , Jon. _He_ _hurt me_.”

“It’s going to be all right,” he soothes her, reaching up and smoothing her disarrayed hair away from her face. “I won’t ever let him touch you again, Sansa.”

He knows then he needs to find out the name of the bastard that hurt her, did this to her. He knows her father and others will do everything in their power to put this sick man behind bars. And deep down, he knows if he had his way, he wouldn’t depend on the law for justice; he would deliver it himself with his bare hands if given the opportunity.

But for now, what matters is that she has, again, come to him, and this time to stay.

There is despair and agony in her eyes; so much he wants to weep for her. His own tears are mingled with joy, for behind the anguish, there is life once more. He could not do this part for her. He had hoped and prayed, and dreaded the what-ifs of her never walking away and what would become of her.

And maybe it is faint, false hope, but what matters is that she did- and maybe she will not stay, but the life he sees in her eyes, and the tears themselves, give him hope that perhaps she will.


	3. Chapter 3

She knows she is being paranoid, but she has every right to be. For the first time in months, she is finally clear-headed to know what she had truly gotten herself into, and not even Jon knows how deep she is in.

She dyes her hair black and adopts a pixie cut. She changes her cell phone number, only giving it to her immediate family.

Jon begs and begs her for a name, tells her that there may be others, and she _needed_  to report him. She shakes her head, because deep down she is still scared. She knows what she had been doing was stupid, but she is not naive anymore. There would be no point to telling the police since _he_ was paying them off. It would just tip him off to finding her faster and she can't let that happen.

She is outside the apartment, in the designated grass section for dogs. Ghost needed to go outside, and though nowadays she is terrified of going outside without Jon, the comfort that Ghost is with her propels her to do it. That and the fact she does not want burden Jon with cleaning up after Ghost if she could have easily taken him outside herself. It is the least she could do for everything he has been doing for her.

The prickling on the back of her head tells her she is being watched, but when she turns, nobody is there. She closes her eyes, trying to clear her head. Most days she still feels like this: dizzy, light-headed. Seeing things that are not there. It was all part of the withdrawal process they said. She shivers, and thankfully Ghost has finished his business and she practically runs back inside Jon’s apartment, frantically turning the dead bolt on the moment she crosses the threshold. She lets out a deep stuttering exhale, forehead leaning against the back of the door. Beside her, Ghost nudges her leg with his wet snout, whimpering. He can feel her distress and she leans down to run her fingers through his white coat to ease him. He licks at her hand happily, and the pounding of her heart begins to settle.

Without thinking, she squats down and wraps her arms Ghost, burying her face in his thick coat, concentrating on the texture and feel of his fur against her face, grounding herself in this moment. She is safe she tells herself over and over. Ghost lets her, and does not relent in his attempt to lick at her face.

The black Lamborghini she saw was just her imagination.

* * *

His internal monologue berates him for doing this. It is a violation of her privacy but he knows it is the only way. He knows the law: he’s studied it and fights to enforce it every day. And along the way, he had made connections with people he probably should not have in his profession.

He picks up his phone and dials the familiar number.

“’Ello,” that thick Irish accent is strong as he remembered.

“I like to cash in that favor,” he says immediately. Then adds with emphasis, “I need everything, _off the record_.”

Davos lets out an affirmative grunt on the other end of the line and that is all the warranty Jon needs.

"Send me the PII you got. What's your deadline?"

He quickly tells Davos everything he knows, and ends the call with, "ASAP." He then takes the sim card out of his phone and cuts it into pieces before putting them both in his pockets. He will dispose of them separately on his way home.

It is immensely impressive as it is scary how quickly Davos delivers. Within fifteen minutes he receives an email notification to his alias email. He scrolls through pages of cell phone records, text messages, social media accounts content both from her account and everyone she ever had contact with. It is all there, and it is the first time Jon gets a glimpse into what Sansa never told him. He reads every word Sansa ever received, every manipulative sentence she must have read. He's seen it all before. The flattery, the romantic words, the promises, then came the coercion and blackmail. There are video attachments but he does not dare click any of them, nauseous of what he might see. He still remembers Sansa telling him how numb she felt that she could not feel anything and did not know everything she was doing.

The last attachment Davos sent at first does not appear to be related to Sansa at all; for it is an entire dossier on a notorious name he recognized. 

Petyr Baelish.

Just as Davos did already, as he reads more, he begins to connect the dots.  Sansa's boyfriend was one of Petyr's men. 

* * *

 

It is so late that it is early. She opens her eyes, blinking away the blurriness of sleep. It takes a moment for her to gather her surroundings, and when she does, she realises she must have fallen asleep on the sofa waiting for Jon to arrive home. Judging by the fact the dead bolt is still on, he never came home. Her stomach lurches and her mind wanders to morbid scenarios. Jon is her cousin and just by being here, she has put him in danger. 

Her hands shake as she dials his number, and it goes straight to voicemail.

She has a voicemail, and it's from Jon. She listens to it as fears gnaws at her.

An emergency came up he said, but he would there as soon as he could. She could not help but feel there was much more he did not want to tell her in a voicemail. She has known him more than half her life, she can tell when he is lying, even through a voicemail. She knows it is hypocritical of her, since she is lying by omission herself.

Her phone beeps at her then, and she looks down, seeing it is a text message from an unknown number. She can practically hear his voice saying the words as she reads it and her skin crawls.

_You can't get rid of me, darling. I will always be a part of you._


	4. Chapter 4

It is a typical night club but he knows it’s more than just a night club. The women there are all beautiful and erotic but he can read the between the lines and see that is all faked. They all smile prettily at him the moment he walks in, brushing up purposely up against him with their scantily clad bodies as they walk by.

 

He personally has never seen the appeal of throwing money at naked women.  The dossier said this would most likely be his main club, his headquarters of operations so to speak. He has no idea why he is here. In his disgust and anger he wanted an immediate confrontation, but now he realises how foolish that is. Ramsay Bolton and Petyr Baelish were not simple men he could just drive up and meet on a whim. They had guards, they had distractions.

 

He spots him, though. For a split second, his gut plummets when he sees the woman beside him. Her long-red hair and lithe body. He knows it can’t be Sansa – Sansa has dyed her hair now and cut it short. But from this angle, he can see the similarities.

 

She’s laughing with him. He slaps her rear. She laughs louder, grinding her bottom against his crotch. Jon can’t watch and he signals to the barkeep to ask for a drink, hoping it will help calm his nerves. He can’t just stand there and gawk openly without someone noticing and blowing his cover. He loses sight of them both as they head towards the back rooms. He glances at his watch on his wrist. It is past midnight. He had left a voicemail for Sansa before walking in but the guilt gnaws heavily at him now. He knows she does not like to be alone in the apartment at night.

 

After everything he has found out, and there is still nothing he can do. He decides he will just finish off his beer then leave and head home.

 

He nearly runs into her as he begins to stand up from the barstool. She is gorgeous. Red luscious hair. Her eyes are the wrong color, though. But she is more beautiful this up close than he expected. She is not as well-endowed as the other women in the room, but he prefers that. Her pale skin glitters when the lights hit her at a certain angle.

 

“I spotted you the moment you walked in,” she practically purrs, placing her hand boldly on his arm. “You look like a fish out of water. First time?”

 

He nods, too struck by her beauty to speak properly.

 

Her red lips curl in amusement. “You’re a virgin.”

 

He nearly does choke on the last swig of his beer.

 

She laughs, and he realizes she is simply playing around with him. She can’t possibly guess that just by looking at him, can she?

 

“You’re too handsome to be a virgin,” she says, leaning closer, her perfume overpowering his senses. “You’re the only man who won’t look below my face. You’re not gay, are you?”

 

He swallows nervously. “Definitely not.”

 

“I didn’t think so, but it’d be okay if you were. Gay men tend to pay me better,” she says factually, and he just stares at her. He’s not even sure how he is supposed to respond to that. “I caught you staring at me earlier.”

 

He doesn’t want to tell her he was not so much as staring at her as the man she was with. He just remains silent and she takes it as a yes.

 

“It’s okay, I like it,” she winks. “Especially from handsome dark-haired men such as yourself. Judging by your business suit, and the fact you’re in here, I assumed you must have money too.  Saturday nights are our priciest cover.”

 

No kidding. It cost him fifty bucks just to get through the door and it still feels like the biggest rip-off.

 

“I just was confused, the rules clearly state patrons can’t touch,” he replies truthfully, and her eyes dawn at his implication.

 

She smirks. “Normally, but some returning customers get special privileges. Like the backrooms.”

 

She is practically sitting in his lap now, and her arms encircle around his neck. He has no idea where to place his hands; there is hardly any spot of her that isn't skin. She easily takes that conundrum away from him as she boldly places one of his hands on her inner thigh, and the other around her tiny waist.

 

“You’re so cute when you blush that I won’t even charge you if you want to go to the back,” she whispers low in his ear.  “It’s not every day I get a gentleman like you in here. Consider it on the house.”

 

* * *

 

 

Her skin crawls so much she is scratching herself. It leaves long, angry red marks on her skin but it makes her feel better. Her nervous tics are hard to control when she feels anxious.

 

The texts would not stop so she had to turn off her phone. He knows her number, he probably knows she is here right now. There used to be a time not so long ago when receiving a text from him felt so elevating, would make her smile and giddy when his name appeared on her phone, and now it fills her with ice-cold dread.

 

He used to make her smile and laugh just as much as he used to make her feel so damn good, and now he makes her want to scratch her skin off with her fingernails. He would like that. He liked a lot of debasing things she never thought to tell him to stop because he made he feel so good beforehand. He would numb her so good -

 

The knock on the door startles her, and her heart pounds so much she can hear it roaring in her ears.

 

Then there is another knock, and she recognizes the muffled voice of Jon on the other side.

 

But what if it wasn't Jon? What if _he_ had someone gotten a hold of Jon and tricked him into luring her back? What if Jon was in on it, what if-

 

"Sansa, please, are you there? You turned your phone off, and if you don't open in the door in the next minute, I'm going to get Tormund here and help me bust down this door so help me god-"

 

He sounds as frantic as she feels.

 

Ghost just looks at her and the fact he is not growling towards the direction of the door, tells her it is Jon.

 

"I trust you," she tells Ghost out loud as she walks to the front door. She peers through the peephole and sees a disheveled Jon. She doesn't remember him leaving the apartment in a suit, but he is dressed up. His shirt collar is undone along with the first two buttons, and so are the cuffs at the sleeves, but it is unmistakably him.

 

She opens the door and rushes into his arms, feeling the solid weight of him surrounding her as he returns her embrace.

 

His dress shirt smells like cigarettes and perfume. She pulls away, and Jon looks at her sheepishly.

 

"Sansa, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to be out so long-"

 

"It's fine," she says in a clipped tone, pulling away. "I don't expect you to put your life on hold for me. You're allowed to have a life even if I don't anymore."

 

She's not sure why she's mad, because she quickly rationalizes she has no right to be. He is allowing her to stay with him, rent free. He even cooks for her sometimes, and he has never once asked her to do anything but just get better. She realises what a selfish brat she has been. Jon should not have to sneak out in the middle of the night just to see a girl he likes. Though before now, she has never seen Jon dating anyone or even wanting to. It's weird to think about what he has been up to all night.

 

"Sansa, what happened to your arm?" Jon's alarmed voice interrupts her thoughts, and his hand reaches out for her forearm to examine the scratch marks that she left on herself. She had scratched herself so deeply, she had broken skin.

 

 "I...I couldn't help it," she admits reluctantly. She glances at the phone she left on the coffee table. He notices it too and asks why she turned it off.

 

She wants to lie but she knows he deserves the truth. Jon sits down beside her as she lets out a deep breath and says, "He found me."

 

Jon's face immediately hardens. "What? How?"

 

"I don't know," she admits quietly, "but I changed my number and he somehow got it. But I'm not surprised; he's a smart man. He has so many connections, I have no doubt he has sources, eyes everywhere."

 

Jon says nothing, just clenches his jaw.

 

"He's not going to give up, Jon. Not until he has me back," she whispers. "He promised me that. That he won't let anyone else ever have me but him. He's upset. He thinks you're...another man I was seeing behind his back when I was with him and thinks we're shacking up together-"

 

"Sa-"

 

"Let me finish, please," she begs, "Jon, _he's not going to stop_. He's just not. He's...obsessed with me. I don't know why. But I can't stay here. I have to leave."

 

"So what's your plan? Running for the rest of your life?" Jon asks her harshly, "Sansa, that's unrealistic! You can be under protection. We can get an emergency protective order _today_. I have pull with the district attorney-"

 

"The law can't protect me!" she yells, and he quiets, stunned by her outburst. "The law, the police, _nobody_. He's bought them all off, Jon! You have no idea how much pull he has. Going to the police will just tip him off. He has the DA in his pocket. We can't go the authorities. Promise me you won't do that, because if you do, you'll just giving me back to him. Do you want that?"

 

Jon swears. "Of course I don't. I promised you I would never that happen but did you ever stop and _think_ to tell me this before? You can't keep something like that from me, not if you want my help. You don't have do this alone."

 

"I'm sorry. I guess I felt if I told you...it would make it more real than I wanted it to be," she says softly. Jon sighs at her confession, burying his face in his hands, his elbows braced on his thighs. She sees now the dark circles under his eyes, and wonders if he had gotten sleep last night at all.

 

"Sansa, I can...you can stay with me with my family," Jon whispers, breaking the silence.

 

She sends him a puzzled look, and then realizes he doesn't mean her family; their family. He means _his_. He never talks about that side of the family; none of them did. The subject has been closed off long ago when his parents were buried.

 

"I...I don't know if that's a good idea-" She still remembers the whispers when he first came to live with them, why their family did not like the Targaryens and it was not just because of her Aunt Lyanna running off with Rhaeger. It is because of what the Targaryen clan stood for. The rumors and speculations that the car wreck was a cover for their murder. Her grandfather could never stand to look at Jon, too reminded of his late daughter and he blamed the Targaryens for her untimely death.

 

"Nobody would dare touch you there," he says and she knows it's the truth. The Targaryen patriarch was still powerful and ominous, even to men like Ramsay.

 

"You're not...you're nothing like _them_ ," she whispers. She winces at how awful that sounds out loud. But it is true. Her father had always said Jon was more like them. He was more of a Stark than a Targaryen. Jon always wanted to be a Stark so badly, she still remembers when he went to her father and asked him if he could change his name legally.  Jon had always tried so hard to distinguish himself from his disreputable surname.

 

"Sometimes you have to fight fire with fire," he tells her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised myself from the start that i would de-anon at this point in the storyline.  
> erm, hi? :3


End file.
